William Wedder, as one-fourth of a hired man, was a distinct success. Not only did he do the ordinary chores that had previously fallen to my lot, but he lightened Marion's household labors by his readiness to churn, wash floors and windows, and to do any other extra work that might have turned her attention from culinary duties. In fact, it soon became apparent that the mainspring of William's energy needed to be kept in working order by a diet that included a liberal supply of raspberry pie or its equivalent, for if the quality or quantity of the dessert were not to his liking his movements became languid and his cheerfulness fled. His own theory, he told me in confidence, was that the dessert compartment of his stomach was so arranged that no amount of plain food would fill it,—he was quite sure that was[Pg 147] the case, for the only effect of trying to fill up by substituting plain food for puddings and pies was to make him feel lop-sided.

But if he was costly to feed he paid for his board by the bountiful supply of vegetables he raised, for our little garden flourished amazingly under his care. And if we fancied chickens for dinner, it was no longer necessary for me to steal out with the axe at night after Paul was asleep and rouse a horrid clamor among the innocent victims that I tremblingly clutched by the legs. How William did it we never inquired. Indeed, we preferred to think that he didn't, but if he did, it was done in silence and with decorum, and the chickens which I had taken the precaution not to allow Paul to include in his flock appeared on our kitchen table looking quite as if they had just been bought at the market.

It was during the second summer at Waydean that I noticed the first indication of Marion's longing to own the farm. She began to resent the proximity of Peter's live-stock, when his cattle looked as if they thought of leaping the fence, or when his[Pg 148] pigs strayed into the barnyard. Then she began to speculate about the value of the land and how many years it would take us to save enough money to buy it, and if, after all, it would not have been better to have leased the whole farm in the first place, so that we might have had employment for the whole of a hired man. Later, she insinuated that she would feel more confidence in me if I had shown myself to be a masterful man by insisting upon the purchase of a plough to add to our three primitive implements, and when I contended that a plough would have been useless without a horse, she declared that a horse would have been provided if we had needed one, and if we made up our minds to buy the place we would find a means of raising the money. But in this case I was not as sanguine as Marion, for I knew that Peter would hold out for a price far in excess of the value of the property if he knew we thought of buying, and that my present income would only allow us to put away a small sum each year toward the purchase. However, the idea kept working in my mind, though I was[Pg 149] careful not to let our landlord know that we coveted his land, concluding that the best way to deal with him, if we ever were able to buy it, would be through a land agent. In the meantime, I had considerable difficulty in keeping the peace between him and my hired man, for they showed such an antipathy to each other that I feared a dispute would arise that might endanger the renewal of my lease. We had all become so fond of the place that I was more than willing to go on paying a high rent, and Peter himself, besides being interesting and entertaining, was still a precious mine of literary material.

Aunt Sophy's interest in Waydean almost equalled our own, and she was enthusiastic in her approbation of our idea of buying the property. She wrote that had I resembled her late husband in temperament she would have advised Marion differently, but considering the wonderful talent I had shown for not buying implements, and my sensible ideas about poultry-raising, she was sure I could be trusted to manage any amount of land economically.

[Pg 150]

Poor Aunt Sophy! She had been ill during the spring, and had delayed her second visit until she would feel stronger; then a few days before we expected her she telegraphed that she would be unable to leave home and asked Marion to go to her at once, if possible. When this direful message arrived we both felt at the same instant that it meant the end of dear Aunt Sophy. But in addition to the sorrow that welled up in me, the appalling thought seized me that it was now too late to atone for having allowed her to cherish the innocent belief that the fowls she had helped us to eat were of our own raising. I could no longer hope that the memory of the vicarious chickens of last summer would be eclipsed by her enjoyment of the real home-made ones we had meant to lavish on her this year. Up to this time the fact that Marion had been equally guilty with me, had been consoling, but when I saw by the agonized look on her face that the same dreadful thought had gripped her I hastened to take the blame.

[Pg 151]

"It was my fault, Marion," I gasped penitently. "I bought the chi—chick——"

"Don't!" she cried, with a little shriek. "How can you say that dreadful word? Of course, it was your fault,—but will that keep Auntie from dying while she still thinks that—that—oh, oh!"

I must say I had not expected such ingratitude. Considering my generous assumption of the blame, Marion might at least have said that it wasn't my fault. Some people can perform a kindly act, and then pass on their way serenely; I cannot. I want to stand by and enjoy the effect; I like my beneficence to be appreciated.

Yet unselfishness, unlike affection, may be wasted; worse, if ignored, it may arouse a whirlwind of passion, as I found, to Marion's cost. In a most unbridled manner I disclaimed responsibility. I asserted that Aunt Sophy, if she were dying, would pass away more peacefully if she went on believing that the chickens were homegrown; that anyway, not having spared expense, I had procured plumper and juicier ones than the best of Paul's; that any [Pg 152]person who would think of disturbing, at such a time, the settled convictions of a dying aunt, was heartless and cruel; that I did not purpose standing quietly by to have my reputation blasted, when I merely needed to tap my head and whisper to Aunt Sophy that my wife's delusion was a harmless one that might well be ignored; finally, that a dying aunt would have something else to think about than the origin of the chickens she had eaten last year. I even suggested, with insane hilarity, that she would be absorbed in speculations as to her chances of reaching Uncle Philip before he had begun to underdrain his celestial estate.

It was at this point that I came to my senses. Marion had fled from the room with her hands over her ears.

There are times when a simple acknowledgment of wrong-doing, or a humble apology, is sufficient; there are other times when it is expedient for me to confess my utter inability to understand how I could have behaved in such a base and brutal manner; but only once in years am I obliged to collapse dejectedly, my face [Pg 153]expressing horror and revulsion as I wipe cold sweat, imaginary or real, from my brow, while in a broken voice I insist that I didn't,—that if I seemed to, it was the devil who had suddenly possessed me.

This time Marion was disinclined to accept any such explanation, contending that if I allowed myself to become possessed I might take the consequences, and I had such a short time in which to depict the extraordinary sensations that accompanied the outbreak that she was ready to start for the train before I had made my case really convincing. She relented sufficiently, however, on the score of parting, to forgive me provisionally, but she hinted that she was taking Paul with her so that if I had another seizure I might enjoy it alone. She hoped, also, that I would make a strong effort to avoid being seized in the presence of strangers who might not understand that I was irresponsible. Did I think she could trust me to behave with decorum if I should be sent for to attend poor Auntie's——obsequies?

These, and other insinuations, I bore with[Pg 154] patient quiet dignity, as became a man who had been lately dispossessed, and my demeanor had such an effect upon Marion that she bade me good-by with the same affectionate warmth that would have fallen to my lot had I behaved with my customary courtesy.

It was not until the next day that I began to think that we might have been too hasty in concluding that Aunt Sophy was seriously ill—although I could think of no other reason for her sudden change of plans and her summons to Marion, but I was not left long in doubt. That afternoon a telegram arrived from Marion assuring me that there was no cause for alarm and that she would be home the next day.

I awaited her arrival with eager curiosity and impatience, and I was mystified to see her step off the train looking radiantly happy.

Aunt Sophy, she declared, was never better in her life, and looked ten years younger, but no further information could I extract until we reached the house and Paul went off to look after his pets. Then I [Pg 155]inquired anxiously if she had confessed about the chickens.

"N—no," she admitted, with smiling hesitancy, "I—I didn't. Auntie's mind was so taken up with—other things."

This was agreeable news. The idea of Aunt Sophy learning of my duplicity had been painful, when I had supposed she was dying; the image of her in good health and looking ten years younger as she listened to my shortcomings was intolerable. Besides, in weakening on her determination to confess, Marion had departed from the line of strict moral rectitude that she was continually tracing for my uncertain footsteps. This thought I carefully buried, like a dog with a precious bone, to be unearthed when next I was hauled over the coals for not doing the thing I ought to have done.

"Well," I proceeded, "what's up—what did she want you for?"

A slightly apprehensive look vanished; a most becoming flush spread over her face. For a moment I imagined, if such a thing were possible, that she radiated with pride and vain-glory.

[Pg 156]

"She wanted—to ask—my advice," she replied, with innocent diffidence.

"Your advice!" I shouted, with a burst of laughter. "Christopher Colum—Oh!—I—I beg your pardon, Marion, I didn't mean——"

I was too late. I am a blundering idiot at times, and my wife thought, naturally, that I was scoffing at the idea of her being qualified to give advice, when, as a matter of fact, I considered her an adept in that accomplishment. I had the painful task of explaining in detail why I had laughed, and the humiliation of admitting that, after all, it wasn't a bit odd for an old lady to crave advice from her niece.

"Anyway," Marion contended, with recurring indignation, "she isn't really old—she's only fifty-three."

"Is that all?" I inquired, with excessive surprise. "Why, she's—she's just in her prime!"

"Just what I told her!" exclaimed Marion, with approving enthusiasm. "I said she had half a lifetime before her yet."

[Pg 157]

"Certainly, she has," I agreed. "And what did she want your advice about?"............